The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  ‘That day we met, at Lewes station, I was running away from someone.’

  Guy was listening.

  ‘My uncle.’ Louisa willed herself to go on. ‘My father died not long before that Christmas and his brother came to stay with me and Ma after the funeral. He’s often been to stay with us and he’s … he’s not a good man. When I was a child he used to persuade me to take the day off school and then he’d take me to a train station and we’d pick pockets.’

  ‘What?’ said Guy, astonished.

  ‘I got quite good at it. I liked his praise and the money he’d give me afterwards. So you see, that day we met, when you thought that gentleman had made a coarse suggestion to me …’

  Guy knew he didn’t want to hear what was coming next.

  ‘I’d been about to lift his wallet but you came just in time—’

  ‘I did see your hand in his pocket,’ said Guy. ‘I told myself I must have imagined it.’

  ‘I was desperate,’ said Louisa. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I had to get away but I had no money.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just ask for my help?’

  ‘I didn’t like to,’ said Louisa. ‘I’ve never asked anything of anybody. And we’d only just met. Why should you have lent me money?’

  Guy took a shaky breath. ‘You said you were running away from your uncle.’

  ‘Yes. He owed money to someone, a gambling debt. And he had told him that he’d repay him with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Guy. ‘Were you going to go out thieving for him again?’

  ‘No. He was offering me.’ She couldn’t bear to look Guy in the face. ‘He was taking me to Hastings, where this man lived. They said just one night would do it.’ She breathed out. She had never felt so filthy, so ashamed.

  Guy took it in. He asked, very quietly, ‘Had you done that before?’

  ‘No,’ said Louisa.

  Guy looked relieved.

  ‘That’s why I jumped off the train,’ said Louisa. ‘I knew what he was up to and I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘No,’ said Guy. He didn’t really know how to respond.

  ‘And it was better, you see, after that. Because of you. I got the job and Stephen didn’t find me there. I thought it was all behind me. Until just lately. He turned up in the village and I was frightened.’

  Guy stayed quiet.

  ‘I had to stop Stephen. I couldn’t have him ruin everything for me. I would have lost my job and gone back to London – to nothing. To him, to Ma, to work as a washerwoman. I’d rather be dead. So I asked for Roland’s help …’

  Guy was confused. Who was this woman?

  ‘He said he could get rid of Stephen for me and I wouldn’t have to worry about him again.’ Louisa searched Guy’s face, trying to read what he thought of her now. ‘Don’t you see? I know Roland is a killer because he has killed – he killed Stephen for me.’

  Guy tried to absorb this. Louisa looked grey and exhausted. He wanted to reassure her but he didn’t know that he could.

  ‘I didn’t know he would do that,’ said Louisa, trying not to trip over her words. ‘I thought he would just scare him off but he hasn’t been seen since that day. I didn’t mean for Roland to do that.’ Tears were pouring down her face now and she wiped them with the flat of her hand as Guy sat completely still.

  ‘The point is,’ said Louisa, ‘I know where Roland is. Or, at least, where he will be.’

  ‘What?’ said Guy. ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s going to be at Nancy’s eighteenth birthday party. We’ve got a few days to make a plan but that’s where you can get him. Surely there you can arrest him for the murder of Alexander Waring, on suspicion of the murder of Stephen Cannon, and then question him about Florence Shore.’

  ‘I don’t know. I need more evidence,’ said Guy.

  ‘You’ve got the letter and the bank books. We’re pretty certain that he was extracting money from Lord Redesdale, probably threatening him about something. Perhaps he would help us. I can ask Nancy, too.’

  ‘How?’ Guy felt a little overwhelmed.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll go back to the house. I can find a way. I’ll do it for you, Guy. The question is, can you do it for me?’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Guy and Harry met at the Regency Café, close to Victoria station. Harry had clocked off for the day and ordered ham, eggs and chips with his tea. ‘I’ve got a long night ahead at the club,’ he said. ‘The band has said I can play along with them for their last two or three songs.’

  ‘That’s great, Harry.’

  Harry eyed his friend ruefully. ‘But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Guy, ‘it’s about the Florence—’

  ‘Shore case, I know. Come on, then. Spill the beans. What’s happened? Did you go to see the old lady?’

  Guy gave Harry the letter. ‘She said that someone had been searching for this but hadn’t found it. Nothing else was taken.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says that Roland Lucknor killed Alexander Waring.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Harry’s order was put before him and he winked at the waitress before squirting brown sauce at the side. He wasted no time in getting the first mouthful in.

  ‘The letter was written by Florence Shore. The old lady, Mabel Rogers, thinks Roland found out she wrote it, and that he killed her.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. He was the man in the brown suit?’

  ‘Possibly. There’s more: Roland Lucknor has been friendly with the Mitfords lately, doing business with the father and writing to the eldest daughter.’

  Harry looked blank.

  ‘Louisa – she’s been working as their nursery maid.’

  Harry put down his knife and fork and clasped his hands in prayer. ‘Praise be, all roads lead to Louisa.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Harry.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Harry scooped up more egg and sauce, grinning with his mouth full.

  ‘Be serious. I’ve got a letter here that suspects Roland Lucknor of being a killer. And there’s a connection with Florence Shore. They were all in the same place at Ypres.’

  ‘I don’t know that that’s a connection.’

  ‘And he’s denied knowing her. But when he was staying with the Mitfords in France, he called out her name in the middle of the night. He was having some sort of bad dream. Louisa went to see what was going on and heard him say her name, more than once.’

  Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘That doesn’t look good for him.’

  ‘No, and what’s more, he was in possession of a bank book in the name of his batman in the army, who is dead.’

  ‘Which is a bit rum but there might be an explanation.’

  ‘Not when money has been going in and out of his account after he died.’ Guy sat back. He’d said it all now. ‘What do I do? I can’t go to Jarvis; he won’t talk to me.’

  ‘What about that other one on the case? DI Haigh, at the Met. I think you should go and see him.’

  Guy stared at the letter. ‘I can’t hold on to this by myself. You’re right, I should take it to Haigh. Come with me, Harry. I need a uniform with me.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘Now.’

  At New Scotland Yard, Guy tried not to be awed by the grandeur of the place even as Harry was suppressing burps. ‘Sorry,’ he said bashfully. ‘You made me rush my tea.’

  Harry asked to see Haigh and was told to sit and wait while a message was sent. The place was teeming with police and men not in uniform, perhaps detectives or undercover policemen, with a sense of urgency and purpose nevertheless, all of them striding through the hall where Guy and Harry sat. There were others on the wooden benches beside them: a woman with a small girl in a frilly dress; a young chap with one black eye and a look in the other that suggested several whiskies had been drunk; a white-haired man, who kept rereading the same piece of pap
er in his hand, then shaking his head and muttering. There were noticeboards with wanted posters, announcements of local meetings and a list of missing persons. Guy wanted to be right in there, amongst them.

  All too promptly, the two of them were summoned. There was a long walk down corridors that yawned ahead, but the smell of cigars let them know when they were approaching Haigh’s office. The policeman who had shown them the way knocked on the door smartly, then walked off before Haigh had told them to enter. He sat behind a leather desk that seemed larger and more foreboding than a judge’s in court. His jacket was off and hanging on the back of his chair, his tie was loose and he had undone his top shirt button. A cigar was smoking in the ashtray and the smoke was floating above them.

  Haigh motioned to them both to sit down. He smoothed his palm over his balding head, slicking down the dark hairs at the side. ‘Tell me what this is about,’ he said, ‘and make it quick. I’ve got to leave in ten minutes.’

  Harry kept quiet; Guy had already said he’d be doing all the talking.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Guy.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Guy Sullivan, sir.’

  Haigh turned to Harry. ‘You’re the uniform – why aren’t you talking to me?’

  Harry started to say something but Guy stopped him. ‘Sir, I asked him to accompany me. We’re from the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Police, from the Florence Shore case.’

  ‘Ah, yes, so you are. I thought you looked familiar.’ Haigh picked up his cigar and sucked on it. ‘Hang on a minute. Aren’t you the one we had a letter of complaint about? From the victim’s cousin?’

  ‘Stuart Hobkirk. Yes, sir,’ said Guy. There wasn’t much point in denying it.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Was that you?’

  ‘It was. But I can explain, sir.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ The cigar went back down in the ashtray. Haigh sat back in his chair and looked evenly at Guy.

  ‘I had discovered that Miss Shore’s will had been changed in his favour only a few days before she was killed. I thought he should be investigated and went to see him but was able to rule him out. The thing is, he wrote to you to say he’d been bothered by further police inquiries, but that wasn’t me. I think I know now who it was. Because of that and one or two other things –’ Guy tried to mutter this bit – ‘I was sacked from the force after that, for carrying out investigations without official permission.’

  ‘Sacked? That’s why you’re not in uniform, I suppose.’

  Guy’s shame glowed.

  ‘Get on with it, then,’ said Haigh. ‘Tell me why you’re here. I’m assuming you think it’s going to make a difference to this case and you’ve got just one minute left to tell me why.’

  ‘Miss Shore’s friend, Mabel Rogers, who spoke at the inquest, reported a burglary but then said nothing was missing to the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway sergeants who went around. She had asked to see me, so I went over. She said she had something to show me, because I had worked on the Shore case.’ Guy pulled the letter out of his pocket and put it on Haigh’s desk. ‘It’s a letter that Miss Shore wrote to her from Ypres, during the war. It concerns an officer she knew, Roland Lucknor, and his batman, who committed suicide. Only, Miss Shore believed that Mr Lucknor had killed him.’

  Haigh picked up the letter and started to read it, as Guy explained the other pieces of evidence that he could: Lucknor’s denial that he knew Nurse Shore, then calling her name out in his sleep; the two bank books in his possession, with money going in and out of the dead man’s account. He didn’t mention Stephen Cannon, as that would have implicated Louisa and he didn’t want to do that unless he absolutely had to do so.

  At the end of it Haigh folded up the letter and handed it back to Guy. ‘It’s good, Sullivan, but it’s not enough. All we’ve got here is supposition. What we need is evidence. If you get me evidence, we can do something. I suggest you find it.’

  ‘Does that I mean I have your permission, sir?’ said Guy.

  ‘The door is behind you,’ said Haigh.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-Six

  Louisa decided not to go back to Rosa’s to collect her things but to make her way directly to Asthall Manor. Ada would lend her anything if she needed to stay, but she hoped very much that she could persuade Nancy to help them, then return to London to make further plans with Guy.

  Louisa caught sight of herself in a shop window as she walked to the station and thought if someone else saw her, they might think she was someone with a hopeful future.

  The train journey was a familiar one now and Louisa allowed herself a snatch of sleep, warmed by the steam pipes in the carriage. By the time she arrived at Shipton station, it was starting to get dark but the moon was almost full and bright. She still had quite a bit of her month’s wages with her so decided she would take a taxi to the house but ask the driver to drop her off before the entrance.

  The lights in the house were on. They were most likely all in the library for tea. She couldn’t let anybody see her but Nancy or Ada, so Louisa decided to head around to the back of the house and hope to catch a glimpse of one or the other before too long.

  The similarity between this night and her first arrival at Asthall was not lost on her. Would Nancy come running to her rescue this time? Luckily, she didn’t have to wait more than a few minutes before she saw Ada come into the kitchen, thankfully alone, and go to the sink to wash her hands. Louisa crept closer to the window and threw some gravel at the glass.

  Ada came outside, drying her hands on her apron. ‘Jonny? Is that you? I told you not to come here.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Louisa as loudly as she dared. ‘It’s me.’

  Ada broke into a delighted smile. ‘Oh, it’s good to see you. I’ve been terribly worried. Where have you been staying? I wrote to your London address but heard nothing back.’

  ‘I’ve not been home,’ said Louisa. ‘I can’t explain it all now but I really must see Nancy. Can you get her out here? I’ll wait for her in the summer house by the bathing pool. But don’t let anyone else know.’

  Ada grimaced. ‘I’ll see what I can do but it might be a while before I can see her alone. They’re all having tea now. You’ll get very cold out there.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ said Louisa, though she could no longer feel her toes.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Ada. She ran back in and came out again with a flask of tea and some bread and butter. Louisa took it, grateful now she realised that in those short minutes her teeth were on the edge of chattering.

  Huddled in the corner of the summer house, the tea long drunk and the bread eaten, Louisa was relieved to see a flashlight heading towards her in the pitch black.

  ‘Lou-Lou?’ called Nancy, and Louisa ran out to her.

  ‘I’m over here.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. You gave me a fright. You know I hate the dark.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Louisa, ‘but I couldn’t risk Lady Redesdale discovering me. And it’s important that I talk to you.’

  ‘Goodness, all this mystery. What’s it about? Here, have a toffee.’ She dug in her pockets and pulled two out, their shiny wrappers glinting.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Louisa, saving hers for later. It might be supper. ‘I’ve come here to talk to you about Roland.’

  ‘What about Roland?’ Nancy’s interest was easily piqued at the sound of his name. ‘We’ve not seen him since he left. Since he … you know. Your uncle.’ She looked at Louisa, concerned. ‘Have you heard from him?’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you think Roland did?’

  Louisa needed to warn Nancy off Roland but she didn’t want to terrify the girl out of her wits. Not until she knew for certain what he had done. ‘He scared him off, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Even so, you mustn’t have anything more to do with him. We think he might be guilty of murder.’ She could practically see Nancy’s hackles. ‘What’s tricky is that we need him to come
to the ball. We need your help to arrest him. Guy and I—’

  ‘Arrest Roland?’ Nancy shouted. ‘Did you ask him to do something to your uncle? If you did, then it’s your fault!’

  ‘Shhh!’ Louisa looked around them wildly, though there was nothing to be seen but dense blackness. ‘No, it’s not about Stephen, it’s about Florence Shore.’

  Nancy stopped short. ‘What? What’s he got to do with Florence Shore?’

  As calmly as she could, Louisa explained to Nancy: his denial that he knew Florence Shore, then his calling out of her name in the night; the loving inscription in the book to Xander, his batman; that Xander was supposed to have committed suicide but now there was a letter, handed to them by Mabel Rogers, in which Florence Shore suspected Roland of killing Xander; and the argument with a lady in a fur coat, days before Florence Shore was killed. It all added up.

  Nancy shook her head. ‘I won’t believe it. I think you’ve put two and two together and made five. It simply can’t be true.’ She caught a sob. ‘I know him. He’s not capable of killing someone. He’s gentle.’

  ‘It’s not just you,’ said Louisa. ‘I’ve overheard him arguing with Lord Redesdale about money. Supposing he’s blackmailing your father about something? Or extorting money from him in some way? They were all at Ypres together.’

  Nancy’s tears dried in a flash. ‘Are you accusing Farve of something? Be careful.’

  ‘No,’ said Louisa, desperate now. ‘Of course I’m not. I’m saying that Roland is trouble. He’s bad news. Whatever he’s done, he’s bringing it to you, to your home. You must help us, me and Guy. Guy can get him arrested and then we can discover the truth of it. If there is an explanation then he can tell us and you’ll be fine. But I have to protect you and Lord Redesdale.’

  Nancy stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Louisa. None of it is true. None of it. You cannot count on my help.’

  Louisa stood too and faced her. ‘I’m going to stay in the village until you change your mind. I’ll find a room and leave a message at the post office to tell you where I am.’